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Wednesday

Graham Boynton

Why don’t people like my cowboy hat?

The presence of ‘The Hat’ has already raised disputes within my family. My wife refuses to walk with me in our village, which I think is unreasonable. ‘Well, would you walk around with me if I were wearing a witch’s hat?’ she said. I know what she means, but she’s wrong. This is not fancy dress; it is a statement of style and taste and should be as acceptable as wearing a pair of Australian R.M. Williams boots or South African veldskoens. Could I wear it at Lord’s this summer? Daughter Two thinks the MCC would be tempted to withdraw my membership Last week, in a Texan town called Bryan

John Sturgis

In praise of peculiar names

It began, as these things often do, in the Births, Deaths and Marriages column of the Times. ‘On 29th February, to Olivia von Wulffen and Rupert Oldham-Reid,’ the announcement read. ‘A daughter, Antigone Elizabeth Anna, sister to Peregrine Yorck von Wulffen and Otto the dog.’ The ad was spotted by journalist Harry Wallop who posted it on social media last week without comment – but plenty of comment would follow, much of it negative. I think that shows a sad lack of imagination.  My rule is that any choice should be recognised as a name: so no Zowie, Moon Unit or Blanket, say The Oldham-Reid von Wulffen family is configured like

Tuesday

Lara Prendergast Lara Prendergast

With Gennaro Contaldo

24 min listen

Gennaro Contaldo is an Italian chef, cookbook author and television presenter. He is also known as Jamie Oliver’s mentor and Antonio Carluccio’s travel partner on Two Greedy Italians. His latest cookbook Gennaro’s Verdure – which celebrates seasonal vegetables – is out now.  On the podcast he tells Liv and Lara about his upbringing on the Amalfi coast, what he’s learnt from Jamie Oliver and how he came to love fish and chips.  Photo credit: David Loftus 

Julie Burchill Julie Burchill

The art of the flounce

With Owen Jones very huffily leaving the Labour party, I was moved to examine the state of The Flounce in public life de nos jours. The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines it thus: 1. To move with exaggerated jerky or bouncy motions (‘flounced about the room, jerking her shoulders, gesticulating’ – Agatha Christie)2. To move so as to draw attention to oneself (‘flounced into the lobby’)3. To go with sudden determination (‘flounced out in a huff’) Are we are past the glory days of flouncing? I thought so until Harry and Meghan did their thing Gabriel Dayan has made the amusing observation that ‘flounce is an abbreviation of fluid ounce, which is

Zoe Strimpel

I’m a hypochondriac. Even I’ve had enough of the anxiety epidemic

Our age of mental hypochondriasis has some surreal, even comic, aspects. I recently met some Gen-Zedders who were actually competing over bagging psychological diagnoses. Unsurprisingly, ADHD was the gateway pathology for these young folk – prescription rates for hyperactivity have jumped a fifth in the last year to 230,000, with doctors claiming to be overwhelmed by adults demanding such labels be medically rubber-stamped.  Is my anxiety something I would want to lead with, as a core pillar of my identity? Between my Gen Zedders, the triumphant wielding of the ADHD diagnosis was swiftly followed by even more spirited claims to autism round the group, of which there has been a

Lara Prendergast Lara Prendergast

Skiing without the crowds? Go to Japan

When trying to imagine what it would be like to ski in Japan, I pictured a minimalist ski resort. I saw chic local skiers in monochrome outfits elegantly swishing down the slopes, before stopping for sushi and ramen. I assumed revellers would drink whisky, sake and beer in the evenings, although perhaps not to quite the same level of excess as in Europe. Skiing in Japan seemed exotic. Did I know the Japanese ski uphill, joked one wag before I left. Skiers can come straight off the mountain to find a restaurant for a bowl of spicy udon ramen To reach Niseko Village, the most famous ski resort in Japan,

Monday

Quentin Letts

Carrie Johnson and the tragedy of pond life

As so often, Hello! magazine had the scoop. Carrie and Boris Johnson are expecting again. This time it is ducks. For her 36th birthday Mrs Johnson was presented with an incubator and some duck eggs. Any day now there will be a splintering of shell and a chorus of incipient, high-pitched quacks as another waddling brood fights its way into the world. Yet more young beaks for Boris to feed, and all the little darlings topped by fluffy, yellow fur. Those Johnson genes! There is another sense in which baby ducks resemble MPs: they do not always last terribly long Duck incubators are fashionable in Chelsea-tractor circles. You need enough room

Max Jeffery Max Jeffery

Unhappy? What a luxury

Rob Stephenson is trying to produce a sonic representation of joy. He’s DJing on stage at the World Happiness Summit in London, pumping out a kick drum at 124bpm. The sound represents the subliminal satisfaction you get from a walk round the park, Rob says. He adds bongos and the dinging noise of a triangle to the track – acoustic equivalents of proper sleep and good nutrition. ‘Can you feel it?’ Rob asks. ‘Can you feel it?’ More inexplicable sound is layered – the melody from ‘Clocks’ by Coldplay, the riff from ‘Seven Nation Army’ by the White Stripes – and Rob starts gyrating at his decks in aural ecstasy.

Julie Bindel

The snobbery of lemon supremacists

I love certain sour flavours, such as the sprinkle of lemon on a piece of oily fish, or fatty meat. It is perfect with food that is naturally sweet, such as brown shrimp, scallops, or young, fresh peas. But spare me the heavy hand with the acid, which seems to be getting more and more frequent when it comes to pre-seasoned food in restaurants. Lemon juice should be a background note, helping the main flavours to stand out. It should not make you wince as though you are chewing a live wasp. We should resist drowning our food in lemon juice in the way that we would ketchup or salt

Friday

Penworthy

Two tips for the Irish Grand National

Irishman Martin Brassil is a brilliant target trainer but even he has to handle the ups and downs that come with participating in the so-called Sport of Kings. Horse racing, particularly at the highest level, can bring despair as well as joy as Brassil experienced at last week’s Cheltenham Festival when he had three fancied runners over the three days. Built by Ballymore was a disappointing 4-1 favourite when he came only 14th of the 21 runners in the Coral Cup Handicap Hurdle, Fastorslow unseated his rider when well-fancied for the Boodles Cheltenham Gold Cup and, worst of all, Ose Partir, was brought down and, sadly, fatally injured in the Boodles

Richard Bratby

’Allo ’allo, have you got a licence for that model engine?

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted a steam engine. When I was five my parents promised that I could have one when I was 12: I think they thought I’d forget. I didn’t, and seven Christmases later I unwrapped a model traction engine made by the Birmingham firm of Mamod. It was chunky and basic, and its bright green and red paint gave it a toy-like appearance. But its brass valves and copper pipes were unquestionably the real thing. Out in the garden, Dad and I lit it up. The engine grew warm, it hissed; its flywheel whirred into life. And a glorious aroma filled the